KA-BLAM. That was the sound of me putting all three of last week's prompts into one giganticly (made that word up!) awesome title. No, it doesn't make a lot of sense, but neither does the fact that Andrew Garfield has somehow managed to block my calls from the last 57 cell phones I purchased, so BUTTEVER. You commendable geeks made me proud with your most recent fiction efforts; your stories were a compelling mix of heartbreaking, hilarious, and totally unexpected. All of you deserve a prize, but this IS Writer Wars, not 3rd grade Little League, so only a few of you can win. For the rest of you, here's some internet noogies and some oyster crackers, because oyster crackers are delicious.
Sparklers' Choice (with 26 votes): CarolinaWren4! Her twist ending was GENIUS.
I had a knife in my hand. He had a 2-foot long sword in his.
I was weaker than he was. He was dying anyway.
Caesar Flickerman's voice came on the loudspeaker. I wanted to kill him. "Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen- it's the part of the Games we've all be waiting for! As soon as we saw these two at the reaping, we knew this would come sooner or later. So, either way, District 12 has a winner! Which one shall it be, Julia or Tyler Harrison?"
He was dying anyway.
The sickness had been destroying him since he was 12. The doctors, they didn't now what to do. In the deepest part of my heart, I knew that it was surprising he had made it this far. It should have killed him far earlier.
The terrible part of me, the part that had been fighting to take control all throughout the Games, spoke, its words venomous, persuasive. "Victory is yours." It was funny how much stronger that part of me had become during the Games.
I considered my options, quickly but carefully. If it was a battle of strength, I didn't have a clue who would win. He was so much weaker than he had been. I knew I didn't have much time, before my brother would get the same ideas. "Finish it, Julia. Follow through."
"Bye, Tyler," I said quietly. I kissed my two fingers and held them out to him. I was shaking like a leaf. His eyes grew wide, wider, as he realized what I was going to do. The veins on his sword arm were brought into definition.
I was faster than him.
The dagger in my hand reached its target, dead center. I allowed myself two seconds to be shocked. "One, two."
He was just as shocked as I was.
The mockingjays stopped singing. A memorial to the child from 12, who climbed trees when nobody was looking, just to try and see the other districts. Who loved to sing from the time the sun rose to when it set, painting the sky a glowing orange.
Caesar Flickerman's voice again resonated from every corner of the arena. "The victor is..." Black spots obscured my vision. I felt no pain.
Only the Capitol could cure him. And, besides, I didn't want to live a life without my brother. My twin.
My mission was over.
I breathed my last.
Dagger's Choice: crazywritergirl! Because of all of it, but especially because of "Barackiosaurus."
"IM SEXY AND I KNOW IT!!!'
My cell-phone screamed the lyrics of LMFAO's overly-catchy tune at me. On high ringer-volume. In the middle of church. During a solemn moment. I blushed...like Zuko's-scar-red blushed, and ran out of the sanctuary with my howling phone.
I made it out into the common area, "WIGGLE, WIGGLE, WIGGLE, WIGGLE, WIGGLE!!!" shreiked the stupid phone. I picked up the call and hissed into the phone, "WHAT IN TARNATION!?"
"Hello, umm...this...umm....this...is the President."
"I hate prank-calls...I will find you and kill your goldfish!"
"I will...umm...call umm the national guard."
"Oh...it is you! Hello, Barackiosaurus!"
"Don't call me that! Umm...how do you know umm who I am for sure?"
"Cause you can't seem to remember what you want to say Mister Bobama. Is your speech-writer sick?"
"Harold has malaria."
"Poor Harold...now what do you want!?"
"Well...umm...I'll cut right to the chase. There is a nuclear bomb hidden somewhere inside your crushes house! You have to find it and dismantle it in one hour!"
"Good gravy! I have a zillion crushes! Which one?"
"Umm...maybe all of them?"
"Oh my stars! Can I have you look up a few addresses?"
"Sure! I'll get the CIA right on it! Give me the names!"
"Here it goes...Peeta Mellark, Matthew Gray Gubler, Tom Brady, Orlando Bloom, The-guy-who-plays-Neville, Will Turner, Shemar Moore, That cute guy in CSI, The-guy-who-plays-Peeta-in-that-Hunger-games-trailer-spoof-I-saw, Legolas, Derek Morgan, Zuko (the animated one), Dr. Spencer Reid, My English professor, Harrison Ford when he was younger...."
"WHOA WHOA WHOA!!! HOLD UP! No more names please!"
"Okey-doke..will that be enough?"
"Yes! NO MORE! I can't take it! I will email you the addresses. Text me when you destroy the bomb, okay?"
"Sure thing Barackiosaurus!"
(That is how I got the addresses of all my formerly ineccesible crushes. I sent the bomb threat. There never was a bomb. Now I now where my crushes (real and fictitious live. HUZZAH!)
Congrats to all of you scholarly scribes! (I know I've used that line before, but there's only so many alliterations that have to do with writing, you know?) And now for this week's prompt:
Write a SHORT (400 words max) story from the perspective of a teenager who wakes up to find that they've been buried alive. How did they get there? How will they escape? YOU TELL ME.
Related post: Writer Wars Archive
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